


Somewhere

by sidewinder



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Memories, New York City, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: The streets of New York City are filled with the ghosts of Henry's past.





	Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



_February 2014_

___________________

When one’s fate was to live forever, memories became your most constant companion.

Memories that blurred with dreams and nightmares, until one sometimes forgot what had been reality, and what only existed in the sleeping mind.

Memories of times long ago, so far in the past that they seemed to belong to another lifetime. Indeed, for anyone else, they would have.

Memories of the not-so-distant past, that haunted the city streets you walked every day.

This was Henry Morgan’s existence, his endless life as he now lived it in New York City. And here on this evening as he headed home from the morgue, he felt the heaviness of those more recent memories most of all.

 _“_ Recent _”_ …well, recent to an extraordinary man such as himself. Memories of this city as it had existed forty, fifty years ago when he would walk these streets with Abigail, perhaps out to the theater and a romantic dinner on the town.

Back before she would stop going out, embarrassed to be seen in public with him. Before her own aging in contrast to his immortality had made her reclusive, and finally led her to flee New York and leave him behind.

Henry sighed and tried to concentrate on the happy recollections, for there were certainly more than enough of those. Turning off Seventh Avenue, his steps almost automatic, he passed the Winter Garden Theatre. Now featuring _Rocky The Musical_ (of all things), he remembered taking Abigail there to see _West Side Story_ when it first opened. He could still recall in vivid detail her expression of delight and joy at the end of the show. They had strolled home together humming to the music playing on in their minds, and in their hearts.

Some things only changed slowly with time—like this theater, almost the same as it had always been save the production artwork on the marquee. Others changed rapidly, in barely the blink of an eye to his perception of time. Where there had once been a charming boutique for women’s hats, now there was a Starbucks. The old, dusty storefront where he had bought Abraham a starter’s stamp collector set now sold cellular phones under bright fluorescent lights. An elegant restaurant he recalled for its fancy copper ceiling tiles and hand-painted mural behind he bar was now a chain drug store.

Slow or quick, in the end it didn’t matter. Everything eventually changed, subject to the irresistible force of time.

Everything... except for Henry Morgan.

Another few familiar city blocks and he was home. The apartment above the antiques shop was quiet and dark until he turned the lights on. He entered the kitchen and found a note waiting for him on the table, in his son’s familiar handwriting.

 

_Dad,_

_Forgot to tell you this morning—got a hot date with a lady friend visiting from out of town. Swedish Meatballs are in the fridge._

_Abe_

_PS - Don’t wait up!_

 

Henry chuckled and shook his head as he retrieved the covered plate from the refrigerator, put it in the microwave to warm. And as he had a few minutes to wait, he went into the living room, the cabinet where he kept his record collection. He found the album he was looking for and gently pulled it out of its sleeve, set it on the player and waited for the music to crackle to life.

 _There's a time for us,_  
_Some day a time for us…_  
_Time together with time to spare,_  
_Time to learn, time to care,_  
_Some day!_

Was there? Henry wondered. A time, a place, that would ever be his and Abigail’s—and Abraham’s—again? A place beyond his memories and the ghosts that filled the streets of New York City?

He didn’t know. Wouldn’t, until or unless he was ever able to find out what had become of her. If, by some miracle, she was still alive.

Somewhere.

He supposed that only time would tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from "Somewhere" are (c) Stephen Sondheim.


End file.
